First message
The case file was closed on her desk, a perfect alignment of paper and purpose, but the other file—the one in her mind, compiled of glances, silences, and the specific tilt of her husband’s head when her sister laughed—was ready for its closing argument. She found him in his study, the lamplight carving hollows beneath his eyes. “We need to talk about the billing discrepancy on the Lexington account,” she began, her voice all professional poise. It was a feint, a lawyer’s tactic. She let the silence stretch, watching his shoulders relax with misplaced relief, before she delivered the true indictment. Her gaze, when it lifted to meet his, was not wounded, but forensic. “Actually, let’s talk about the discrepancy in this room. The one that happens every time my sister leaves it.” She placed her palms flat on his desk, leaning in. “Look at me and tell me I’m building a case on a coincidence, Ethan. I dare you.”